


Heterozygous Cross

by Aesoleucian



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Bureaucracy, Gen, Mystery, yeah that's the part I'm excited about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 15:47:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11763159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aesoleucian/pseuds/Aesoleucian
Summary: Someone doesn't want Uklan and Sunder to go to the Tower of Samot. But why? (Well, it's the New Archives. What do you think?)or,Uklan's metaphors go wrong in new and exciting ways.





	Heterozygous Cross

**Author's Note:**

> I promise barely any of this is about Mendelian inheritance. Sunder would disagree.

On the 4th of the month Uklan comes into his office to find it ransacked. One of his bookcases bisects the room, books strewn beneath it (although none are damaged; no archivist would be _that_ inconsiderate) and papers are scattered from his filing cabinets. He is quite sure that this was only for ritual purposes—it’s definitely part of _some_ kind of pattern. Normally they would notify him in advance, but maybe he missed their note. He turns his gaze hopefully to his desk, which has been flipped upside-down. Maybe there is a note _under_ it.

Eventually, finding no note under his desk, he reasons that if they didn’t notify him, they can’t complain about him ruining their pattern by putting his office back in order, and begins tipping the bookshelf back upright and replacing the books. He _is_ a little put out at whoever did this, though. There are polite and impolite ways to ransack a room for a pattern, and this was a decidedly impolite one.

A quarter hour later he realizes that his expeditionary permit has somehow gotten shredded between the sharp corners of two bookcases, and permits himself a soft curse.

He leaves a note at the drop point: _My office was turned over and the permit got damaged. We need to apply for another one. Your presence will be required; please meet me in the third hour of the afternoon at the Office of Expeditionary Application Forms. S.E.U.T_.

When he returns, feeling much more himself after restoring his office and having a midmorning meal, his associate has already left a reply. _That took a month to get approved! Please tell me we don’t have to start the application process again from scratch. Even L.U. didn’t make us do that. They have their deliberation notes, right? They can just issue us a new one. Please say they can just issue us a new one. D.A.A.S.H_.

 _We will not know until we try. Meeting time and location unchanged. S.E.U.T_.

 

 

On the 6th of the month they have an appointment to see the Expeditionary Permit Review Board, which took a great deal of finagling that Uklan is not sure his associate appreciates. He does the talking, because archivists have always been less apt to take humans seriously, even if they have been doing good work at the New Archives for the better part of a decade and are required to be there as expedition coleaders. “Gentlepersons of the board,” he begins, because now is not the time to stop standing on ceremony. “My deepest gratitude for taking the time to speak with us. As you have been informed, the permit you granted us to research the Mark of the Erasure was accidentally damaged in the course of ambient semiotic activities, and rendered null. However, there are still records of its approval that can be consulted if there is any doubt about whether it was granted. In order to expedite our research and the advancement of orcish knowledge, we’d like to request it be reissued without delay so that we can go forward with applying for funding.”

“You want us to skip the expeditionary permit review process?” asks one of the board members, leaning forward and adjusting her glasses. “What do you think this board _does_?”

“You already reviewed our permit,” says Uklan, a little desperately. “You’ll find your notes documenting all the considerations of our case, so perhaps you could review _those_ to come to a faster conclusion.”

“The board reviewed your case thirty-five days ago,” says another bored-looking board member. “Semiotician Emeritus Tel, surely no-one knows better than you that no time is like any other time. This institution’s pattern has changed utterly from the first of last month. The board will take one week to deliberate. You will be informed once we have reached a decision.”

Uklan bows, and nudges his associate’s arm to make sure she bows too. Getting in to see the EPRB in two days and negotiating for one week’s deliberation is about the best he could have hoped for. “Thank you, gentlepersons of the board,” he says, “for your consideration.” Under his breath he says, “Time to leave.”

Outside, she stops restraining her mutinous expression. The whole way they walk together, until Uklan turns off into his own building, she releases a steady stream of invectives against the board. Uklan tries to look like he is not associated with her, but human notions of personal space seem to require that she walk no more than one inch away from him at all times.

 

 

On the 13th of the month Uklan, fresh out of another clandestine meeting with one of the promising young orcs he was hoping to bring onto the expedition (she withdrew, saying that she had gotten a better offer starting immediately), goes to his section of research garden 5 to stare morosely at his pod vines. He didn’t schedule anything else for today, so he expected to spend a quiet few hours taking notes on their growth patterns. Instead, only half an hour after he arrives, his associate drifts in soundlessly and startles him by speaking just behind his ear.

“Tel, the drop point has been compromised.”

He jumps, and nearly overbalances. “Er, right, yes,” he says, as if he knew that. He didn’t. Just before coming here he left a note for her, informing her of Yuug’s withdrawal. “By whom?”

“If I knew that,” she says, “we would be a lot closer to setting off. The cold weather gear I had in warehouse 76 has been stolen.”

“Requisitioned?” he corrects half-heartedly.

“It’s only two months off from high sun day,” she says, scowling. “Nobody who isn’t going to the Mark has any reason to use elk fur coats. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that they were taken just after I told you I had them moved.”

Uklan can think of many other uses for elk fur coats, all of them semiotic. But he says nothing, because Sunder Havelton is rather frightening when she’s angry.

“What are you doing, anyway?” she asks.

He seizes on the opportunity to distract her so she’ll stop looking like she’s about to blow someone up.  “I’ve been cultivating these pod vines for a few growing seasons, and I observed some interesting patterns in the colors of their flowers.”

Havelton peers at one pod vine flower. “It looks plain purple to me.”

“Yes, well, they’re not all purple. All the ones on _this_ plant are purple, but the ones on _this_ plant are white. The pattern governing what color the flowers are is based on which plants were its ancestors. How do plants know what color to be? There’s an underlying pattern governing it, some kind of code. It’s as if each of the plant’s ancestors gave it partial information and it had to put those clues together to figure out what color to be, but sometimes it doesn’t consider all the information available.”

Havelton frowns intently at him, with the expression that means she’s thinking hard, but doesn’t say anything, so he continues.

“Pod vines would rather be purple than white, so if they have two notes, as it were, one telling them to grow purple flowers and one telling them to grow white, they ignore the white note.” Havelton’s calculating stare is starting to make him nervous, so he turns away and goes back to looking for early flowers to mark down the colors on his map of the plots.

“I understand, Tel,” says Havelton gravely. She stands up, again eerily quiet (is that a thing all humans can do, or is it just because she’s not wearing a single abacus?) and goes inside. He only knows she’s left because he hears the door shut.

Uklan looks after her, bewildered, feeling like the two of them are out of phase. Of course, they’ve always been a little out of phase, communicating as they do almost exclusively via short notes left at a secret drop point. One would think, given this, that they would be _in_ phase if they met up in person. But that is not the case. Havelton seems to have phase shifted the other direction, leaving Uklan behind rather than ahead.

 

 

On the 14th of the month Uklan is summoned to the Office of Expeditionary Permit Review and given the new permit. His associate does not seem to have been notified, so he stops at the drop point to leave her a message. Then he remembers that the drop point is _compromised_ , and fumbles for something to write in case he is at that moment being watched. Finally he writes, _Will discuss E.P.R.B. results at my office. S.E.U.T_.

When he opens the box he finds that his associate seems to have had the same idea; she wrote to him, _Looks like someone requisitioned our gear. It’ll be fine, I’m sure I can track it down. I’ll be sure to find everything white that I can! D.A.A.S.H_.

He puzzles over that, and slips it into his pocket as he walks. His associate is no semiotician, and he isn’t aware of any patterns that require white items of cold weather gear.

Outside his office he finds a flustered young requisition officer sorting through a pile of papers, holding a lidded ink pad in their mouth and a stamp under their arm. They look up when he approaches, and spit out the ink pad onto their clipboard. “Semiotician Emeritus Tel! Your—your _associate_ is wreaking havoc. She’s been going around _threatening_ people.”

“Why?” asks Uklan as he opens the door. The requisition officer comes in after him, shoving their ink pad and stamp into a pocket and reclipping their papers.

“Maybe not _threatening_ ,” the requisition officer mutters. “Threatening isn’t the right word. But she has been questioning people _very_ aggressively about some items that were requisitioned a few days ago.”

“Did you manage to find them?” asks Uklan, brightening.

“We have a _lot_ of requisition records,” says the young orc wearily, as if they tell people this all the time. “I told her I would get someone to look into it, but she wouldn’t take ‘tomorrow’ for an answer. Would you please control her? She’s interfering with operations and scaring the interns.”

Uklan isn’t sure that his associate can be _controlled_ , as such, but he says, “I’ll talk with her when she arrives.” He hesitates, looking at the miserable young orc in front of him. The amount of paper spilling over in their arms is making even him anxious.  “You can stay for a while and do your paperwork here. Fewer people might find you, and I do know that everyone ends up shouting at requisition officers. I’ve got chamomile tea, if you’d like some.”

They sigh and slump into the old guest chair he keeps, largely for interviews. “That’s very kind of you, Semiotician Emeritus. Shortages of everything, and everyone thinks I can do something about it. I’m Grian Nok, by the way.”

Uklan shakes their hand, and then pours out water for tea. He sets an obsidian and a nodule of native iron on either side of the teapot, a single chamomile leaf on the handle, and begins to stir the water (right-hand circles, one revolution every inhale and exhale) until it reaches a pleasant temperature just below boiling. He pours and offers a cup to Nok, who nearly spills hot tea all over themself when Havelton slams the door open and storms in.

“Tel—” She almost sits on top of Nok, but stops herself at the last moment, looking at them in surprise. The young requisition officer is desperately trying to gather up all their things one-handed, looking more flustered than ever. They leave in a great hurry, trailing crumpled scraps of paper and carrying Uklan’s teacup. He hopes it doesn’t get _requisitioned_. He quite likes that cup.

“What were _they_ doing here?” asks Havelton.

“I’d hoped they could relax a bit,” murmurs Uklan. He pours another cup of tea for himself. “I gather that it’s not easy being a requisition officer. Honestly I was a little worried they’d have a heart attack outside my office, and I don’t need any more paperwork… Oh, they were originally here to ask if I could ask you to be a little gentler with your interrogations. Apparently you’re scaring the requisitions interns.”

His associate throws herself into the recently vacated chair and crosses one leg over the other, then rapidly switches legs. “So? Were we approved?”

Uklan holds up one finger, and begins to walk around the perimeter of the room with his teacup, placing goosedown at strategic points along the bookshelves. He feels rather clever for incorporating the tea, boiled without bubbling. Sound does travel better through water, _but_ a simple negation should take care of that—he takes the brass ring out of his pocket and, closing the door, places it on top of the doorknob. He looks back at his associate, who is rolling her eyes, and says, “You were the one who insisted that our communications had been compromised. I’m simply taking precautions, although it will become apparent to anyone watching when we go to the Funding Office. Yes, we were approved.”

She lets out a gusty sigh and leans back with her arms stretched out over her bent leg. “Good. Do you have any idea why someone would want to delay this expedition? Hardly anyone except EPR knows why we’re going, and it’s not like information about the original pattern is classified.”

“Would you like some tea? It will help.” She refuses the tea, so he refills his own cup. The (very slight) drawback to linking it to the silent pattern is that one of them has to be actively drinking tea to maintain it. Maybe he should start making more, if she’s going to be here for long. “There are all sorts of reasons archivists might not want the original pattern revealed. I don’t claim to be an expert, but does it really matter?” She shrugs. “Anyway, I might be able to find our gear more quickly. Semiotically, I mean.”

“Go for it,” she says, and takes a book out of the bag she dropped at her feet. She opens it up to a page of notes bookmarking it and starts chewing on the end of the pen she keeps behind her ear.

He looks at her for a moment. “That is not to say that we shouldn’t try to find out who is antagonizing us,” he offers. “Perhaps we could stop them from trying again.”

“Mhm,” she says.

He gives up and starts on his pattern.

 

 

On the 16th of the month Uklan spends from sunrise to the fifth hour of the afternoon in the Funding Office. His associate is elsewhere, although all she said in her note was _Inquiries are proceeding. Don’t look for me unless you have news_. Hopefully she took his suggestion and is inquiring into who took their equipment, now that he’s managed to get it back.

“You’re missing form 232.1.”

“Oh, very sorry. Where can I get it?”

“It’s at the other end of Funding, at the front desk.”

Who would have a reason to delay research on the Mark, indeed? Uklan tries to stay out of politics, but even he is aware of the schisms along several axes that plague the New Archives. This has nothing to do with apparative magic (insofar as anything can _not_ ), he’s not out to categorize anything living, and as far as he’s aware no-one is currently researching the original pattern besides his group. He frowns all the way to the front desk and then apologizes when he bumps into it.

 

 

On the 17th of the month Uklan narrowly avoids being crushed by an avalanche of books in the north library when a group of rowdy sub-librarians get into an argument about filing.

 

 

On the 18th of the month Uklan narrowly avoids falling into the gaping pit that opened up outside the post office because he is too absorbed in a letter from another associate, an archivist-collector who is on the west coast for a repossession job. There certainly was not a gaping pit when he went _into_ the post office, he thinks irritably. Who would give out a permit for something like this?

 

 

On the 19th of the month Uklan narrowly avoids being trampled by a horse when he goes into one of the smaller towns for herbs that aren’t commonly available in the Archives themselves.

 

 

On the 20th of the month Uklan narrowly avoids being pushed off a ladder by someone’s intern who is in a great hurry, and he is finally beginning to suspect that his bad luck is more pattern than coincidence. “Excuse me,” he says. “Whose research group are you in?”

“Me?” says the intern, looking panicked. “Oh, shit, please don’t tell my advisor. No harm, no foul, right?”

Uklan gives her his most mild-mannered slightly-bemused blink. “Oh, not at all. The books you dropped on me look interesting, and I was wondering what project they’re for.”

“ _Oh_ , thank goodness, yeah, sorry. I’m in the Tun research group, my team is doing migration patterns of blue geese. We’re about to publish a paper, actually!”

Uklan listens to her summary of her research and the trip they hope to go on all the way to the main desk, and then thanks her sincerely for sharing it.

Unfortunately it looks like this really was an accident, just like all the others. Young orcs these days just have too much energy.

 

 

On the 21st of the month Uklan narrowly avoids being disembowelled by an escaped specimen on the way to his hearing at the Expeditionary Funding Review Board, although it has quite slipped his mind by the time he and his associate have argued for two hours for more discretionary funds in case they need to get extra supplies in Auniq. But when, exhausted, he and his associate walk out of the building, he stops suddenly. Remembering that this is where it happened.

“Havelton,” he says. “I haven’t had a chance to speak to you for several days.”

“Walk me to my room, then,” she says.

“Right. I am beginning to think someone is trying to maim me. Today is the fifth day in a row that I have narrowly avoided being killed.”

“We had a saying at the University: once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, and three times is another tenure candidate trying to snipe you.”

“Were there really assassinations over tenure?” asks Uklan, alarmed. The concept of tenure doesn’t exist at the New Archives, but he already knows that cutthroat behavior exists, if not commonly.

“Only one,” his associate assures him. “And that was an edge case. Anyway, I made sure he wasn’t going to be inconveniencing _anyone_ else, if you catch my drift.”

“You murdered him?”

She rolls her eyes. “Way to take all the fun out of innuendo. Yes, I murdered him. The academic investigations committee wasn’t doing anything about it.”

This is precisely what he expects from his associate, so he just nods. “Um, well, all of the accidents that happened to me really did seem to be accidents. Or they were _very_ carefully orchestrated, but frankly I can’t think who would have the free time to do something like that.”

“Maybe someone with a lot of spare interns,” says Havelton, which he thinks is supposed to be a joke. “But we’ve _got_ our funding. All we need now is to finalize our team, actually requisition supplies, and go. We should be able to be off by the twenty-third.”

 

 

On the 22nd of the month, it starts raining torrentially. The expedition has to be delayed again due to flooding.

 

 

On the 24th of the month, it is still raining. Uklan, noting that no lightning ever accompanies the thunder booming around the mountains, begins to backderive the pattern that could cause such a storm. Each individual element of the pattern will have to have been publically noticeable, for such an impressive result. Naturally, as he’s walking to the warehouse where all the drums are stored, he narrowly avoids being run through by a collection of lances that are being archived. “WATCH WHERE YOU’RE GOING!” he yells at the runner. It doesn’t seem to have any effect on them, but he feels a little better for having yelled.

He takes a detour to follow the runner, as repeated murder attempts are beginning to concern him more than the timely cancellation of a dangerous weather pattern. But the runner does not meet up with anyone to tell them _I failed, he’s still alive_ or any nonsense like that. They deliver their lances and go for dinner. Defeated, Uklan takes the opportunity to get some dinner for himself, and then goes off to look at the closest of the seventeen wells on campus.

 

 

On the 25th of the month Uklan cancels the rain and for a brief window the whole group seems on the verge of leaving. Then they discover that all the supplies they stockpiled for departure, all the food, herbs, and cold weather gear that they _finally_ reclaimed—all of it is gone. Uklan sits down with his face in his hands on the steps to the main building’s entrance hall while his associate storms out, presumably to disembowel someone. The students in their group shift nervously. He ought to reassure them, or they might leave.

“Don’t worry,” he says through his fingers. “We’ve had a lot of delays before, and we got past all of those.”

“We were supposed to leave, like, a month ago,” someone says. “If it’s going to be another month I’m out.”

“It’s not going to be another month…”

“Semiotician Emeritus Tel!”

He looks up.

“Um, I thought you might want to hear about this,” says Grian Nok, looking slightly less flustered than last time he saw them, but also more embarrassed. “We’ve just had a large donation.”

“From whom?”

“A couple of students from the Tun research group?”

“Thank you, Requisition Officer Nok,” says Uklan, getting to his feet. “Can you take us to where the items were dropped off? You lot, come on, I’ll need your help carrying.”

When they get there, a group of Tun’s students and interns scatter like cockroaches under a sudden light. Uklan thanks Nok profusely and, overladen, they all return to the departure point triumphant.

Except that the expedition’s coleader is now somewhere else, possibly _making sure Tun won’t be inconveniencing anyone else_. Uklan pays a nearby runner two small jars of cardamom to find her and bring her back—half an hour later she is found, fuming, but brightens when she sees that the supplies have returned too.

“Did you find out who it was?” she asks as they finally, _finally_ make it out the front gate.

“Tun’s research group,” says Uklan. “The animal behaviorists.”

“Wh—what? Why? It was a _funding_ dispute, I thought for sure it would be the EFRB. I found all these coded letters about how they couldn’t possibly allow us to take out the funds they’d granted us.”

Uklan pushes up his glasses, frowning. “If I’d known that, perhaps I would have made the connection to the expedition Tun’s group was hoping to go on. They must have been trying to delay us until they could publish and prove that they deserved the funding more than we did. Which they do _not_ , by the way, our work is _extremely_ important, not that they would know.”

Havelton looks blankly at him for a very long time. Finally she says, “I was ignoring the white note under my nose the whole time. I tried _so hard_ to look at all the evidence, but—I was never the plant! The plant is, I don’t know, the offspring of our shared knowledge. Who were we supposed to give this to?”

“What on Hieron are you talking about?” asks Uklan.

 

 

On the 3rd of the month, Uklan narrowly avoids being killed and eaten by wolves. His research students, all four of them, are not so lucky.


End file.
